I'll Have to Call You Back, I'm a Bit Tied Up at the Moment
by PippinStrange
Summary: Hello, my name is Shawn Spencer, and yes, I'm a psychic. And yes, I'm tied to a chair. I can tell you three things; firstly, I am too busy to call the police right now; secondly, I really hate carnival mallets; and thirdly, I'd really just like to cry right now. Rated T for violence and language.
1. Part I

**I'll Have to Call You Back, I'm a Bit Tied Up at the Moment**

**By Pippin Strange**

**rated T for violence and language**

* * *

**...**

"I know this may be very difficult for you to hear," I said in my most empathetic of voices. "But it isn't…"

"Isn't… what?" asked Tamera, middle-aged and brunette, clutching her handbag as if it were a floatation device in the dangerous waters of menopause.

"It is not… a haunting," I took her hand slowly, patting it comfortingly. "It's your daughter."

"What?" exclaimed Tamera, raising her eyebrows.

"EXCUSE ME?" erupted the teenager, Kim, in the armchair, her black eyeliner widening to reveal a pair of extremely angry eyes.

"Observe," I said theatrically, "The dirt and the bloodstains under her fingernails—when she moved the dead cat from the road to your living room, it was out of guilt for having committed a hit-and-run against the family pet—and not out of malice—that she left it for you to find. That _is, until,_" I paused dramatically, waiting to see if the teen wanted to interrupt. She was glowering.

"Until she saw your reaction. When she realized you believed it to be a spirit she couldn't bring herself to reveal the truth—that she—I have a vision now, of her stealing your car—to—I'm sensing music. Music. Loud music. A concert. She wanted to go to the concert that you may or may not have forbade her from going to."

"You went to that awful metal-of-death?!" screamed Tamera, shooting to her feet.

"He's making this up!" Kim screamed back.

"I am sensing that you hit the cat on the return home, trying to make it back before your mom awoke early for work. You were in a hurry and—smack!"

Gus's head jerked up at the other side of the room where he had been trying to concentrate on not listening to my latest client.

"You killed poor Fluffy McWhiskers. But that wasn't enough, when you realized how gull—sorry, Tamera, how _swayed _your mother was by the idea of a haunted spirit, you went all out. The writing in the mirrors and the shifting of all the furniture. Anything to cover up your little… lie."

"He's insane, he's seriously insane," Kim snapped. "Mom! He's a fake! I didn't do any of that!"

"What proof do we have, other than your visions?" Tamera turned accusingly to me.

"The blood—fingernails—ugh," I rolled my eyes. "Firstly, you'll find parts of Fluffy McWhiskers under the bumper, I had a vision they would be there."

"His name wasn't Fluffy McWhiskers!" Gus suddenly piped up. "It was Barley!"

"Secondly, I am sensing—seeing—waste—waste of time? Toilet waste? WASTE… basket! Garbage basket! If you check her garbage you may find receipts for the concert tickets. Not to mention a video she took—at the concert—on her iphone."

Tamera held open her hand. "Give me your phone."

"No!" Kim cried.

"Give it to me NOW."

Kim slapped the phone angrily into her mother's hand. Tamera stared at her for a second, unsure of what to do with the technology. "If I may," I said smoothly, sliding my fingers across the screen till I had pulled up her most recent video. The screams and cheers of crowd surfing suddenly filled the room. Music blasted the tiny, innocent little speakers of the iphone that did not deserve such abuse.

"OH MY GOD I LOVE THIS SONG," Kim's voice from the video screeched. Tamera quickly hit the "end" and the silence that reigned was so loud Gus could have demanded that we turn it down because he was in the middle of a very important phone call with a lady friend.

"YOU ARE IN DEEP TROUBLE, YOUNG LADY," Tamera grabbed her daughter's elbow and began to guide her out of the Psych office. Kim flipped me off just before they disappeared through the front door.

"I'll bill you," I called forlornly after them. Tamera waved uncomfortably from the sidewalk as she all but shoved Kim into the passenger side of their tiny green Geo.

...

"Shawn," Gus blurted as soon as they drove away. I love how he says the word 'Shaw-awn'. Somewhere, somehow, a rich fat man is paying him a hundred bucks every time he can make my name into two syllables.

"And what, encouraging, deep, peaceful, thought-provoking statement does Dove chocolate have for me today?" I asked.

"Funny," Gus replied, almost as if it wasn't that funny. _Weird. I thought it was funny._ "I was wondering about the case…"

"Oh, you mean the one I just solved? That one?"

"No, the one you haven't."

"It's not that I haven't _solved it, _Gus!" I whined tiredly, flopping back into the armchair. It smelled like teenager perfume with a blond pop star from 2001 on the label. "It's just that we have hit a dead end!"

"Lassiter called. He wanted to know if you've made progress."

"Crap. We really need to get the collie off our tail."

"You did not just make two Lassie puns in one sentence."

"TIMMY IS NOT IN THE WELL IN THIS CASE!"

"I get that! But we got to give him something! Anything!"

"Fine," I whipped out my phone and speed dialed Detective Carlton Lassiter, whose hair had grown progressively less shiny in the past five years.

"SPENCER," growled the voice on the other line.

"Your voice sounds rugged and sexy—tell me—did you just work out?"

"Enough with the psychic stuff. So you know I was at the gym this morning—BIG DEAL! I need you to tell me if you've got any giant double rainbows hanging over some solid EVIDENCE."

I covered the mouthpiece with my hand, even though my phone does not have a 'mouthpiece' and Lassiter could still definitely hear me. "He just made a youtube reference," I stage-whispered.

Gus suddenly looked extremely offended.

"I heard that!"

"Lassiter," I greeted formally as if he had entered the room wearing pinstripes. "The spirits have not been communicative. But I am sensing that there is more than one perpetuator."

Gus mouthed, _What? _

_Synthetic hair and one real hair, _I mouthed back.

"Shawn, you know I can't read lips!"

"Don't be insensitive to your own disabilities, Gus!"

"SPENCER!"

"Sorry, Lassie, side conversation. Gus wanted to know how much I'd bet that the recommended use of toilet paper is only four squares, you know how he is."

"I don't really want to know."

"I am getting the tingling sensation in the tippy tips of my fingers that often means that you are looking for—not one—but two assailants—the DNA samples will return and confirm that one of the hairs was synthetic—I'm getting _toupee _from the spirits—and the other was real. I believe you are looking for a red-headed female and a bald man."

"I hope you're right," Lassiter groaned, hanging up the phone.

"You know you just described your father and that woman he went out on a date with, right?" Gus exclaimed.

"My father does not wear a toupee, except for in my memories," I tapped the side of my head. "And he went out with a strawberry blond, not a red-head. There's a difference. To the follicle-challenged, however, this is not a surprising mistake to make."

"I need to go home," Gus shot out of his chair. "All this talk of cases and redheads… I am hungry for kiwi and a nap."

An awkward silence followed this profound statement.

"KIWI?" I erupted. "What the hell would you want KIWI for?"

"Because tastes good, that's why!"

"That is the most random, tropical fruit you could have chosen."

"MAYBE I'M SICK OF PINEAPPLE!"

I pretended to get stabbed in the heart. "I can't... I can't… hear this…"

"Shawn, I will see you in the morning," Gus picked up his briefcase and fairly waltzed out of the room, checking his phone messages with a creepy grin on his face.

"Have fun on the date you are trying to keep a secret from me," I shouted after him. "Try not to scare her off with stories about how amazing I am."

"I'MMA KILL YOU," Gus barked over his shoulder. "IF YOU SHOW UP AT MY DATE WITH INFORMATION ON THE CASE. SERIOUSLY. IF YOU INTERRUPT, YOU'RE DEAD!"

"Dude, relax, chill, chillax," I kicked off my shoes and threw my legs up onto my desk. "I'm staying right here and studying the case file. Have fun. Take breath mints. Have a glass of wine on me."

"Breath mints and wine don't mix."

"Have fun, buddy! I won't sabotage you, I promise. I've learned my lesson."

"YOU KNOW THAT'S RIGHT!"

The door slammed.

"Wait, you're my ride home," I whispered into the lonely, bitter wind. _Oh well. _I opened up the case file and began to reexamine the paperwork. It wasn't the real case file, naturally, only the photocopies made discreetly on the copy machine at the station. I scanned it before, but now I was reading it carefully, going over every detail and looking for clues.

...

Two murders had been committed, first the security guard at the club, and then the manager sitting in the tiny cramped office behind the bathrooms. Weird place for a double murder. Couldn't help but wonder if the shooter had wanted to get _to _someone, and was simply mowing down the others in their way. Security, because they needed to get to the manager, and the manager, because he knew the place… but he wasn't the target. He was sort of a nobody.

The club was the front for human trafficking, it was soon discovered. Even Lassiter was disgusted enough with it to act like a sympathetic, protective human being. When they found the back room, where approximately thirty people stood—drugged and tied—Lassiter spoke to them tenderly and found one awake enough to say that she had been abducted and sold and that her home was actually Portland, Oregon. The group was rescued—the club was shut down—

I snapped my fingers. Of course. We were dealing with something much bigger, here, sort of like that one movie with that one guy and the cups girl. And by cups I don't mean—you know—I mean—tap tap, taptaptap, tap—tap—tap—tap tap, tap tap, tap—tap—tap! And singing!

The shooters wanted to eliminate someone that could give a confession—and the manager knew exactly who was passing people through the club. They were looking for the slimeball who moved the people from point A to point B, even though they were the ones paying him to do so. We were after the shooters, and they were after the human-shepherd.

This was different than a lot of things we'd dealt with before. We've had elaborate heists, creative robberies, the mysteries of the hideously wealthy, greedy murders, family secrets… but human trafficking? That was such a Los Angeles thing, and no one realized it had made it here.

Even Lassiter said something along the lines of, "NOT IN MY TOWN!"

...

I snorted and woke up. I had fallen asleep with my head on the desk. When I sat back, one of the papers stuck to my face. I whipped it off irritatingly and glanced at it—crime scene photo, the manager's dead body. He had been shot in the chest and his knee was broken. It was odd. Forensics' best guess was that when the force of the bullet took him by surprise, he slammed his knee into his desk and broke it. It took him awhile to bleed out, but…

I couldn't help but feel that they pulled his rolly-office-chair out, broke his knee first as an incentive. When he didn't spill, they shot him, and rolled him back under the desk. After all, the hairs had been found on the chair. My theory was better, in my humble opinion.

I looked at the clock… midnight. Glorious. I could just sleep on the couch.

Someone jiggled the doorknob of the Psych office. _Great, just what I needed! Someone trying to break in! I've got my own crimes to solve, hoodlums! _

I stood up quickly, and the knob broke off, and there was a muffled voice. _Creepy. _I picked up something heavy—a lamp, how smart of me—and started to hide under the half-wall. I tried to kneel and was suddenly jerked off my feet by—the damn cord!

I unplugged the lamp, rolling my eyes at myself, and grabbed my cell phone with my other hand. Okay—speed dial Lassiter? Or 9-1-1? Choices, choices…

Someone kicked the door open. Speed dial it is. _Ring… _

I stood up again, brandishing the lamp over my head. "DO NOT ENTER MY DOMINION!" I shouted loudly at the two dark figures standing in the front door of the office. "I'VE GOT THE POLICE ON THE LINE RIGHT NOW!"

_Ring ring ring…_

_Damnit, Lassie… Timmy IS in the well! Pick up!_

"Funny," said a female voice. Her hair shone red in the eerie, unauthorized area-esque glow of the streetlamp outside. She leveled a gun at my face. "Drop the phone."

_Ring, ring._

I didn't hang up, but I slowly lowered the phone to the ground. "Can I keep the lamp?" I asked nervously.

The man stepped inside, shutting the damaged door behind them as best he could. "That door isn't insured," I complained.

The two of them were wearing cheap masquerade masks from a dollar store, the shiny kinds that hurt to wear after more than an hour. It was a poor disguise, since I could see the whole shapes of their noses, eyes, chins, and the color of their hair. The man was holding one of those weird sledge-hammer things that you can buy balloon replicas of at your nearest carnival.

The woman kept her gun pointed at me. The man marched angrily towards me, dark brown eyes furious under a toupee. If I were balding and wearing a toupee I'd be furious too. He ripped the lamp out of my hands and set it aside.

"Hands in the air," said the woman. "Make this quick," she said to the man. "I still think this is a bad idea."

I raised my hands. _Putchyer hands in de air, keep em there like you don't care, happy birthday, party all night looo-ooong… _

"We know who you are and what you do for the police," he said calmly. _Wow, definitely not the peaceful voice I expected to go with those hellfire eyes!_

"Okay?" I said, wiggling my fingers slightly. "So—you know that I saw this coming, obviously. And I already have a back-up plan in place."

_The call is going to Lassiter's voicemail…_

"We have two options for you," said the man. "Option one, you feed the police false information, and you find someone for us instead."

"So you WERE looking for someone? And let me guess—the manager of the club didn't ACTUALLY know where he was?"

He ignored that. "Option two, you get off the case. Don't go to the police, forget we were here. We're a merciful pair and we are willing to let you go, alive, if you leave this whole mess alone."

"Third option," I said, "All three of us forget the mess and we go get tacos."

The man put his hand on my shoulder. His fingers were calloused and his palm felt heavy and far more threatening than he let on. "Those are our conditions." His other hand had to grip his sledgehammer extra tightly to avoid dropping it. Those things are heeeeavy.

"Are you going to shoot me?" I asked slowly. "I've been shot before. I've no intention of reliving that ever again."

"Depends on which option you pick."

"I'd like to take some time to consult my girlfriend about it. May I?"

"No. Stop clowning around."

The lady-friend stepped closer and pressed the tip of the gun in my temple. It was cold and very uncomfortable.

"So which option involved not shooting me?" I asked. "Because both options seemed to contain no shooting. I'm willing to go with either. I just want more details before I make a decision."

"He's stalling, he's not going to do it," the girl looked down at the phone, which thankfully, had finished recording a very interesting voicemail and now went back to the regular screen. She kicked the phone away quickly. "He won't help us, and he's not getting off the case."

"I think we may need to give him the third option," said the man.

"Good, because I am totally hungry for tacos," I said quickly, my voice going into a higher pitch. _Don't lose your cool! Don't do it!_

"Well, third, we kill you," the man shrugged absently.

"I thought you said you were merciful?"

"You're being ridiculous," said the woman, and I was surprised to realize she was not talking to me. "I've seen how these things work. When we kill, we leave DNA at the crime scenes. There is just no getting around that. And you want to leave MORE evidence?"

"We need to find our guy," the man protested.

"I said it before—we don't need a psychic, and we don't need this right now. Are you seriously ready to kidnap and hire someone who works for the SBPD, or trust that he'll 'pretend' to get off our trail, or kill him? Are you really that stupid?"

"They seemed like good ideas to me."

"You're an idiot. We can't leave a body trail."

"I agree with that," I said quickly, "If you kill me, I know of two very talented detectives that will stop at nothing till you've been hunted down."

"See, see?" the woman erupted. "Killers leave clues. Buying him off isn't going to happen—look at him, he's a poster boy for the police!"

"Well, I wouldn't say _that, _exactly," I shrugged.

"So what are we going to do?" asked the man.

"Well, as usual, Brian, I'm going to clean up your mess," said the woman, motioning her gun towards me. "Go into the other room. Sit down."

Adrenaline pumping, I turned and walked stiffly into the other room, sitting down on the low coffee table, keeping my hands in the air. _I really hope Lassiter gets my voicemail…_

"Tie his hands," commanded the woman. Brian shuffled in and walked over to me, jerked my hands uncomfortably behind my back, and began to tie my wrists together with rope that he magically had in his pockets.

"What are you going to do?" I asked, my sing-song voice faltering slightly.

The woman nodded at Balding Brian. "Prop his feet up on that chair."

Brian grabbed one of the hard-backed chairs from the kitchenette table, placing it in front of me. He pulled another bit of nylon rope from his pocket and tied my ankles together, and then wound the leftover rope through the… spokes? Spickets? Miniature fencing?—of the chair back.

"While I appreciate you setting me up in this comfortable position so that I can put my feet up while you guys make a getaway," I said slowly, "you could just… I don't know… tie me up and lay me on the floor. That would work too." _Also, I could belly crawl to my phone._

"Knots are easy to undo," said the woman creepily, "I'm afraid we must leave you incapable of easy escape."

"Knots are NOT that easy to unknot," I replied, "Trust me. If you just tied me up, it would accomplish the same. I am not Houdini. My life would be very different if I was good as escaping things."

"Do it," said the woman, ignoring me.

"Do what?" I repeated.

Brian suddenly became my least favorite lumberjack and carnival grand prize-winner in the whole world. With a graceful arc, he was swinging the sledge over his shoulder and bringing it down onto my leg. It seemed to move in slow motion before it made contact, shattering the kneecap and snapping the leg into the wrong angle.

"AGH!" I screamed, falling backwards with the force of the blow and slamming my head into the coffee table. So _that's _why they wanted my leg propped up! It was BBC America's Copper all over again! Well, except, he actually fought back. Plus he was Irish and a total stud.

The woman kicked the chair out from under my leg. Ankles still tied to it, it flipped me off the coffee table and I landed in a horribly tangled position on the floor, my broken leg twisted up behind me, with the chair lying on its side.

I was laying on my stomach, mouth pressed into the small knit rug, screaming. "DAMNIT, THAT HURTS," I shouted, feeling like if I could just bury myself a little farther into the floor it might not hurt as much. Every inhale was through gritted teeth, every exhale was a scream. "Oh… god… please… shit… put me right side up, please, don't leave me like this!"

"And, our work here is done," said Brian hopefully, clinging to his—MALLET! It's a mallet! "Right? He can't follow us? Won't work for us? We didn't kill him? Can we go?"

"This was your idea," reminded the woman. "Not so keen to stay and see it through, now, are you? Now that it actually requires work? I'd really like to shoot him, but… alas… too noisy."

"So you weren't going to shoot me! That was just for show!" I gasped. "Ugh, damn you, I just… need… to sob. Please let me cry and don't tell my girlfriend. Just go away and let me cry."

"Get the other one," said the woman.

"NO NO NO!" I screamed helplessly, and Brian swung his mallet down a second time. _Snap! _It was like the worst cramp of your life, getting shot, and being on fire all rolled into one small concentrated area. Second leg broken and my other preciously innocent kneecap smashed, I thrashed unhelpfully on the floor and couldn't do a damn thing about it.

"THERE IS NOTHING WORSE THAN TWO CRIMINALS WHO DISAGREE," I snapped when I found my own speaking voice amid my own screaming. "SOMEONE GETS HURT!"

"Like we have any problem with that?" the woman said coolly. "I've killed two already before I realized it was getting too much attention from the force's finest. You're lucky. Very lucky. In fact, Brian was the one who wanted to hire you, but I prefer this ending."

"I hate you, Brian," I sobbed childishly. "You're MEAN."

Brian looked surprised. "But…"

"This is what happens to people who interfere with our operations, remember that," said the woman. "This isn't some missing jewelry or revenge plot or some ridiculously fancy robbery with those fat happy people in their mansions. This is the real world. This is where we sell people, hurt people, kill people. It is either kill or be killed—so you really are lucky." She kicked the chair again.

"Stop, just stop," I said hoarsely, trembling with the pain radiating from both legs. "I obviously will be off the case now and will have six weeks of physical therapy. You've succeeded."

"True," Brian nodded quickly.

"Let's go," said the woman, and they walked out of the room. They disappeared as quickly as they had come—shadows out the front door, which still couldn't latch correctly behind them. Of course they were wearing gloves—we wouldn't get any prints from that. Fantastic.

For a moment, I was just trying to breathe. In, out, in and out.

"Shit shit shit shit shit," I mumbled. "This hurts… I just want to be unconscious… why didn't they hit me in the head? I just want to faint. I'd love a good 1940s feminine glorified faint. Please faint. Please faint. Please."

I didn't pass out but I sure as hell wanted to.

* * *

**This will be a short story. The second chapter will probably be the last. Let me know what you think! I've never written for Psych before but now I'm addicted to the show. I relate to Shawn like no other character... he's so random and quotes movies all the time :) please review!  
**


	2. Part II

**I'll Have to Call You Back, I'm a Bit Tied Up at the Moment**

**By Pippin Strange**

* * *

Part II

...

I could tell you three things. First, I was tied to a chair. Second, I really, really hate carnival mallets. Third, I was crying, plus all the synonyms for crying.

I'd never been in so much pain in my entire freaking life. I tried to focus on it, right? Like all the nerves were just sending little demon-possessed pain signals to my head, so if I told the brain _this isn't real, _it could stop, right?

No can do, apparently.

"Okay, breathe, Shawn, breathe," I said out loud to myself. "Get untied from the chair." I was still twisted around, face pressed into the floor and legs in a broken heap. I had to give myself a pep talk. "It's not that bad," I muttered, my throat sore from yelling. "People break bones ALL the time. Kids get broken arms and they aren't making as much noise as I am. I'm just a big baby. I'll never get to play football again!" I couldn't remember the last time I had actually tossed a football, but the thought of it made me let out a sob anyway.

I tried to think about what Gus would say to me right now if I were just laying on the floor for no reason at all. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself," he might say, "And getchyer ass off the floor!" He was starting to look like Samuel Jackson in my mind. Maybe he wouldn't be like that. Maybe he'd kneel down next to me and give me a count off. "SHAWN!" he'd yell. "I believe in you! On the count of three, one, two, three!"

I tried to maneuver my tied hands towards the floor, pushing myself onto my side. Since they were tied behind my back, I could use them to push myself into a sitting position if I could only get that direction. Except the slightest movement, even turning around to the count of an imaginary Gus, caused blossoms of searing pain in both knees that made me see red, black, white, and then red again. It was that sharp moment of running into a coffee table with one's knee, except replicated over and over, to the power of…. Thirty-five.

So—what would Dad say?

"What are you doing on the floor?" he'd ask incredulously. "You can't solve anything from down there. Get up."

"Easier said than done," I replied to thin air, facing parallel to the floor, grateful that I had made it this far.

"You're a failure," said Dad. "Always have been."

"Wait—what?" I exclaimed. "My imaginary versions of all of you are supposed to be… not like that."

"You let the perps get away and you lay on the floor and cry like a big baby," said my imaginary Dad.

"MY KNEES ARE BROKEN!" I screamed back angrily.

"Oh," said my imaginary Dad, eyes widening. "Sorry, son, I didn't realize." He bent down and knelt by me, whispering tenderly, "You're very… delusional."

...

I blinked, and he was gone. Okay. So apparently I did pass out, but unfortunately the pain didn't go away with my consciousness. It stayed like a bad penny in the pocket of a man falling in love with the portrait of a beautiful woman stranded somewhere in time. Stupid penny.

I was waking up. I had no idea what time it was. The lighting hadn't changed. I didn't know if minutes or hours had crept by. I couldn't see a phone or a clock or a laptop screen or even the god-damn windows.

Okay, step two to this arrangement. I needed to sit up. Badly.

I slowly rolled my body forward till I was in the fetal position, trying to push my head towards my knees rather than the other way around. Then I rolled my shoulder, pushing—up—shoving my tied hands against the floor and giving myself a boost—

"Ugh," I groaned, my whole body shuddering with effort. I was sitting up—finally—and good look at the damage. I was wearing khaki shorts and luckily wasn't going to have to cut away any denim to see what was happening.

Have you ever seen road kill? Not freshly killed, but after it's been sitting for several hours and has been hit several more times, spilling guts and gray brain matter all over the asphalt. It was kind of like that. My knees looked like a bloodied, crunchy mess. It looked like someone poured some gravel and rubbed it around in the caved-in area that should have been round and bendable. I could see the shattered patella and—possibly—the slightly white, rounded end of my femur bone.

"Okay, okay, okay, okay," I said to myself, rather hysterically. Now that I had worked so hard to sit up, _now _I felt like fainting. I was so dizzy the room seemed to compress onto my head, pushing my vision out and replaced it with black spots that tried to get bigger and looked uncannily like those little germs in a microscope you see in those science specials on tv.

I leaned sideways against the coffee table, concentrating on not falling backwards again. _Breathe, breathe, in and out, in and out… _

_Now, if only Jules were here. Sweet, breathtaking, angelic (but with a gun) Jules. _When we first met I seriously felt like I would do or say anything to make her smile at me. Now, she would smile at me without any prompting. It was a freaking Christmas miracle. She had fallen for me but sometimes I felt like I had fallen much harder. Sort of in a crash and burn way. I could make her laugh and then she'd finally snap "SHAWN!" and we'd get back to business.

Just thinking about her brought a strained smile to my face. If she were here, she'd probably try to help me up, and then she'd be like, 'oh wait, maybe that's not a good idea' and then she'd command me to stay put—and I would do so—until she looked the other direction, that is. She'd be unable to do much, really, but she'd ask, in that serious voice, "What can I do?" or "What do you need?" which I had heard often enough from her, and had never really appreciated it until now.

She was such a giving person, and I wondered if I had ever truly realized that. Generous with her time and her resources. That's one of the many ways she showed that she cared. My girlfriend is the real wonder woman.

_Phone. I need the phone. I need it now._

My desk phone was closer, but I'd have to stand to reach it. Standing was not an option. Luckily, I think I had talked myself out of fainting. The compression-feeling was slowly backing away, and while I felt all the blood draining from my face, it didn't seem to be happening quickly enough to turn green and topple over.

But I was trembling and couldn't stop. The pain was so intense that I had no response to it other than shaking tremendously. I tried to scoot forward—yes, using my legs—and the result was complete and utter agony.

"AGH!" I screeched. "Shit! Shawn! Stop moving! This isn't going to work!"

_Agony, agony, agony, agony, _I thought, unable to think of another word.

"Agony," I sang lightly. Who knew that _Into the Woods _would have an appropriate musical number for me. "Beyond power of speeeeech… when just what you want, is the only thing out of your reeeeeach…"

I looked at my knees again, turned my head away from the coffee table, and vomited. It was nothing but stomach bile and the acid burned until I had retched and heaved anything that could be retched and heaved. Breathing heavily, I spit a few times onto the floor, trying to rid my mouth of the taste. I wanted water…

...

Was I going into shock? I had no idea. My first clue was that I remembered everything that I read and I must have read shock symptoms as some point in my life, but I wasn't remembering anything, which means either I did not read up on shock or I was really going into shock. But maybe I wasn't because I couldn't remember if memory loss was part of it. If it wasn't, then maybe I didn't, but if I did…

My body still had tremors and my ankles and hands were still hopelessly tied. _Hands. I'm such an idiot._ Nylon rope can be stretched, sort of. It's one of those slippery kinds that you can maneuver if you do it right.

I started working feverishly to pull my wrists through the rope. I tried to make my hands as small as possible, but he had tied the knots very, very tightly. If only there was something sharp…

It wasn't much, but I could hope to wear down the rope. Under the bottom edge of the coffee table, there was a spot where the wood was not very sanded and sort of splintery. I tried to tuck my wrists under there, shifting them back and forth, but to actually do any good, I'd need a lot of friction and movement. Those two things were very unlikely.

_I could really use my awesome pocket knife right now. And where was it? The pocket of my khaki shorts. Not the reachable back pocket, of course. The side pocket. Naturally. _

I heard buzzing—my phone was going off in the other room. It rang, and rang, and rang. It was probably Juliet. Lassie would have gotten the voicemail, and then called her right away. He would have said, "I'm going to his office," and then Jules would say, "I'll meet you there," and then on her way, she'd try to call me. Then she'd call Gus. Then all three would show up here and ask me what I wanted for my birthday.

Morphine, I think. Or some other pain-relieving drug. Six weeks of therapy was starting to sound more like twelve weeks of therapy… you know, two legs, twice the therapy. That's probably wrong.

Why was I even bothering to move? Lassiter and Jules were on their way to rescue me. Even if they didn't because they decided to hit up a movie instead, Gus would find me in the morning. He promised he'd be back in the morning. All I had to do was wait.

My phone was buzzing again. And my office phone was ringing, too.

I suddenly had an inhuman burst of foolhardy energy, and I found myself scooting my butt along the floor like those weird hyenas with fleas on animal planet.

"MOVE, MOVE, MOVE," I yelled at myself, indescribable pain battering my legs like… well, like mallets, actually, damn them. It was only a few feet to my desk. I was dragging the chair crookedly, it was pulling at my ankles, separating the delicately shattered remains of my knees… I wasn't going to make it…

I rammed my entire upper body into the desk, as hard as I could. It knocked the phone off the cradle, but not onto the floor. I threw my shoulder a second time, as hard as I could, into the side of the desk, but the phone stayed put.

Then it stopped ringing.

I told myself I could wait till morning, but that didn't stop the despair from flooding me anyway. I was so dang close. It would have been perfect. If only it was one of those phones that "answered" the call as soon as it was off the cradle, then I could have screamed a classic "HELP!" and all would be well.

But no. It was still sitting up there, and I was down on the floor, body going into tremors again for all the strain I had just put on my legs. Probably not a good idea in retrospect.

...

The floor rose towards me like I was Leonardo DiCaprio in the dream world, and my forehead was slamming into the ground without the benefit of a rug this time. I felt like the color green and my heartbeat had left my chest and moved down to my knees, where it throbbed at its topmost speed.

"This sucks," I mumbled, and sleep did not come with a gentle wave of darkness so often described. It came with a slap and swollen, heated pain.

I let out a beast-ish roar, waking up a second time to a miracle-sound—the sound of my front door being opened. The lighting _had _changed—perhaps a few hours had gone by.

"SPENCER!" barked Lassie's voice.

"Shawn!" called Juliet.

I tried to say 'in here' but my throat involuntary gulped instead. It was so dry I couldn't speak at all. All I could do was let out a dry-heave moan and a cough, trying to clear my throat of absolutely nothing.

By the sounds of their footsteps I could tell they walked into the doorway of the second half of the office. I was facing the other way, lying on my side again, trying to ignore the entire lower half of my body. _It has received enough attention for one night, thanks. Wait. That sounds wrong. _

"Oh my god," Juliet was holstering her gun.

"Holy shit," Lassiter exclaimed. "I'm checking the back, and I'll call the ambulance, stay here."

_S'okay,_ I thought, _I'm not going anywhere…_

Jules dropped to her knees and put her soft hands to my face. "Shawn," she said, urgently, "I need you to wake up. Come on. Wake up. Talk to me."

"Hi, babe," I croaked out.

She stood and grabbed a pillow from the couch and ran back, propping it up under my head. She gently pushed her hand through my hair, whispering, "Now, don't move, okay? Help is on the way. I just want you to stay awake."

"Maybe we should just take him in our car, it could be faster," Lassie came striding back into the room, all business. He still had his phone pressed to his ear even though he wasn't on the line anymore. Poor, haggard fellow.

Juliet pointed at my legs. "We shouldn't move him without a stretcher. I don't want to cause more trauma."

"Could you at least cut the chair off me?" I whispered childishly. "Pretty please?"

"I… I think that'd be okay," Juliet leaned carefully over me, opened up my side pocket, and pulled out my pocket-knife. Oh my god, she knew exactly which pocket it was in without hesitating a minute?

"I love you," I wheezed.

"Carlton," Jules handed Lassie my knife. Lassie creepily flicked it open and bent down, sawing carefully away at the rope. Realizing that wasn't the best way to go about it, he slipped the blade under the rope and jerked it upwards instead, cutting the rope in one swipe. With the sudden slack, my feet slipped to the floor and sent a destructive force of fiery pain though me.

I let out a loud yell, pushing my face into the pillow and twitching spasmodically. "Ow, ow, ow," I hyperventilated.

"Hang on, Shawn."

"I… I can't handle this…" I was letting a few manly tears slip past the eyelid barricade. "I can't do this. I can't do this. I can't do this." I was getting hysterical. "Jules…"

"Shhhh, it's okay," Juliet gripped my shoulder with one hand and pressed the other to my cheek. "It's okay. The chair is off. Carlton, can you get his wrists?"

Lassie came around and cut the ropes off my wrists, carefully, and pulled my arms around to the front of my body. I could now fully relax if I wanted, sinking into the pillow and trying to stretch the fingers that had no feeling in them whatsoever.

"Where's that god-damn ambulance?" Lassiter exclaimed. "O'Hara, did you get a hold of the Chief on your way here?"

"Yes," Juliet was taking my hands in her own and massaging my wrists, trying to get the sleepy-tingles out of them. "Did YOU call his father?"

"Right after the ambulance, yes. He'll meet us at the hospital." He paused. "And did you call Guston Butter?"

"Don't you mean Buston Gerber?" I mumbled, a smirk tugging at my mouth.

"It's early in the morning, okay?!" Lassie snapped. "I need coffee."

_Coffee…_

"Sort of, yes, but that was before we found him," Juliet said with frustration. "I just told him to call me back, he didn't answer his phone. Shawn, honey, I need you to stay awake, okay?"

"Mhm," I moaned again.

"Shit," Lassiter said again. "Who did this?"

"Redhead and toupee man," I said, trying to keep my eyes open.

"The same…?"

"Yeah," I flexed my fingers. Some of the feeling was coming back. They felt usable. I reached up and slowly tucked a fly-away hair behind Juliet's ear. She had clearly just jumped out of bed, threw on a pair of jeans, and came running. I didn't even realize. She was in a pair old dirty ked shoes I'd never seen her wear before, a large T-shirt… (hang on, definitely my shirt!) and was wearing no make-up.

"You look like an angel," I said quietly.

"Thank-you," Juliet said graciously, trying not to smile.

Lassie snorted.

"So do you, Lassiter," I added. "A fallen angel, maybe, but an angel nevertheless."

Lassie heard the sirens before we did, and he perked up like a hound dog on point. "Finally," he said.

"Worried about me?" I said woozily.

"Sure, Spencer," Lassie said, his voice one-hundred percent sarcastic. But Juliet and I both knew he was being one-hundred percent serious. He always sounded his most sarcastic when he was being unbearably truthful.

"You didn't answer your phone," I added hazily. "Busy?"

Lassiter sighed tiredly. "I was up doing paperwork and went home late. I took an hour-long shower. Saw your voice mail and decided to check it later. Ate some food. Then I remembered you called." His answers were short and clipped. "Then I listened to you idiots talking about tacos."

"Tacos?" Juliet repeated. "You said he 'sort-of' weaseled a confession out of the killers over the voicemail!"

"And that," Lassie added disdainfully. He glanced at me and looked away again, quickly. "Sorry for the wait, Spencer."

"He just apologized," I sighed. "What a night. What, a, night."

"He forgives you," Juliet's eyes twinkled. She bent down and kissed me soundly, just as the lights and sirens of the ambulance lit up the room from the windows. Red and blue passed around the walls like a dizzying strobe light at a party with a sexy nurse theme.

Lassiter greeted them and began barking orders like a drill sergeant. When the paramedics came in with a stretcher I realized I was going to have to move again, and gripped Juliet's hand so tightly that she winced.

"What's his name?"

"Shawn, Shawn Spencer."

"Hello Shawn, my name is David. We're going to get some support around these legs, okay? Can you hold still for me?"

"Aye aye, captain," I replied.

Everything went hazy. There was some yelling, prodding, movement, possibly a needle for an IV (I tried not to notice nor think about it) and a jarring sensation that elicited a loud cry of pain. I clenched my teeth together and tried to scream quietly through them, unable to contain myself.

"Jesus Christ," Lassiter exclaimed. "Can't you do something about that?"

"We need to get these supported and contained before we move him," the paramedic said calmly. He looked down at me. "You're lucky you didn't lose very much blood. Give us another minute and we'll be on our way. Okay?"

"Okay," I said slowly.

Juliet's phone rang. "It's Gus," she said, answering quickly. "Gus? Hi. Shawn's been hurt, can you meet us at the hospital? No, he wasn't shot, we'll explain when you get there. Okay. We're on our way."

I was suddenly lifted into the stretcher and I couldn't remember if they had warned me they were going to do it. I lost my grip on Jules's hand and clutched for it, panicking. I was losing a battle with consciousness again, and I heard a paramedic say, "We're losing him!"

That seemed a little over-the-top. Can't a man pass out nowadays without everyone acting like he's dying?

"Just… sitting… down…" I slurred, letting the dizzy colors of green and black blot out all my other senses.

* * *

**Okay, I guess this isn't going to be the last chapter. Let me know if I should continue! I love writing for Psych! Thanks for your reviews, too! **


	3. Part III

**I'll Have to Call You Back, I'm a Bit Tied Up at the Moment**

**By Pippin Strange**

* * *

Part III

...

_Sometime before 1990_

_..._

"What are you hollering about?" Henry Spencer knelt down in front of his son, who was making a huge fuss—something between a cry and a 3rd grader's version of cursing.

"I fell off the porch and scraped my knee," Shawn roared, pointing to the bloody scab on his knee.

"Instead of crying about it, why don't we just take care of it?" Henry exclaimed. "Don't you think it'll feel better if we actually get off our butts and do something about it?"

"I guess!"

"So what should we do?"

"I don't know."

"You're a smart boy, take a wild guess."

"Clean it and put a bandage on it?"

"Why, yes," Henry threw his arms in the air. "That's IT! You hit the nail on the head! Good job." He stepped onto the porch and opened the front door. "Come on, to the bathroom."

Shawn remained seated on the front steps, looking down at the blood. "It hurts to stand up," he said, absolutely pitifully with the biggest cow eyes he could muster.

"All right, fine, you get a freebie," Henry bent down and picked up his son, who was instantly grinning. "But this means, someday, you'll have to admit to someone that you let your old man carry you when all you needed was a simple band aid." He didn't understand why his son was smiling when that should have put him in a more humble place.

Shawn was unbelievably delighted that, for once, Dad was _carrying _him towards relief, just the way he rescued people while being a cop. Usually he only got to hear about the heroics, but he wanted to see some of it in person, too.

...

_Present Day_

...

By the time I woke up again, I could tell time had definitely passed. The lighting was different… it was that dull periwinkle blue when the sun rises on a cloudy day… sometime around 6:45 am. There was a tiny vase of flowers on the hospital table. This hospital room itself looked like it had seen better days.

_What the heeeeeeell? How did I get here? _

I had IVs and tubes and god knows what else sticking out of me and the beeping sound on the heart monitor was letting everyone and their mother know that I was alive with a constant _beep, beeep, beeeep, beeep, BEEEEEEEP…._

I tried to shift but was unable to. My legs still hurt, like they had at the office, but without the discomfort of being twisted the wrong way and face-first in the floor. There was a small jacket on the chair beside my bed—Jules was here, but probably off getting a snack or something.

_Oh! My knees! My poor, poor knees… ouch… that's why I'm here. _

I was also breathing with the help of one of those plastic things that they stick in your nose, which was also very uncomfortable. It gave me a ridiculous desire to sneeze.

There was another chair my right, and my father was asleep in that one, head cocked to the side, mouth slightly open, deep-sleep breathing coming in, and out, in, and out.

"Mufasa," I said hoarsely. "Yo. Father. Papi. Papa. Papo. Pops. Daddy-o. Da. Big-Daddy. DAD!"

It was the last one that did it. I could hardly talk, my throat was so dry and sore, and my father was probably having a dream about not getting his boat engine started only to realize the horrible sound was actually me.

His eyes opened quickly. "Hey!" he said with a yawn, looking a little surprised but trying to hide it. "Let me just—hold on a sec…"

He scooted his chair closer to the side of my bed, hit the call button for the nurse, and then settled back. He took my right hand in his and gripped it like he was trying to offer me congratulations. "How're you feeling?"

I was surprised at how quickly I felt tired. I felt fine a second ago—in pain—but awake, obviously. And now all I wanted to do was go back to sleep. "Mmkay," I said slowly, trying not to yawn. "My legs hurt."

"I called the nurse."

"Gotchya."

"It's good to see ya, kiddo."

"How long have I been out?"

"About…. Well, a day, give or take a few hours. The last thing you probably remember was at an ungodly hour yesterday morning when Lassiter and Juliet found you. They brought you in, did emergency reconstructive surgery…"

"I didn't know Lassie was a surgeon in his downtime…"

"Oh, yes," my father shot back sarcastically, "And he wore baby-pink scrubs."

The image was so funny I snorted, but sobered up quickly enough when I remembered that _someone had freaking hammered my knees!_

"I failed my reflex test," I moaned.

"Sorry?"

"You know, the hammer, in the knees."

Dad glared at me.

"It's a joke, Dad. If you can make a joke about Lassie in baby-pink, I can joke about—y'know what, never mind. I'm too tired to keep up with myself."

"You're going to be tired for a long, long time. Where's that damn nurse?"

"It's like Pollyanna all over again. I'll still be able to run around, right?"

"You are a lucky bastard that this wasn't fifteen—or even ten—years ago. Yeah, you'll be able to 'run around', after some intense physical therapy. They removed the pieces of shattered bone and reattached the muscle… you might need a knee replacement in a few years, or get arthritis, but… it's looking good for you, son. Of course this means taking a bit of a break from… cases."

"Oh, well, that's great, Dad," I responded sarcastically. "No income, and surgery expenses! Just what I wanted for my birthday!" I was scared, and frustrated, and was definitely taking out those feelings on the nearest walking, talking object.

"I'm sorry, son." He paused. "Okay—seriously? Are there any nurses in the god-damn facility?" He hit the call button again, and the nurse walked in, dressed in fresh scrubs and wearing her red hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked surprisingly chipper for the hour that it was.

"Good to see you awake, Mr. Spencer," she said kindly, "How are we feeling?"

"'We are feeling a tad bit suspicious," I responded hazily. _Hair. _

She blinked slightly at my answer. "Okay. How's the pain? We've done quite a bit of work on that knee to get you mobile again." She looked at the screen-thingy. "Are you in pain?"

"You bet your ass I am, that's a dumb question." _Cheekbones? _

"Shawn," my dad exclaimed, "Come on now. You can take your anger out on your old man, I can handle it, it's fine... This woman's just doing her job."

"I'm going to bring the doctor in to answer all of your questions," said the nurse, "I know you probably feel disoriented and worried—that's perfectly normal. We're going to do everything we can to get you back on your feet, okay?"

"How's my extra knee-dy patient?" said a calm, relaxed voice with a friendly chuckle. The doctor walked in behind the nurse, the hospital lights glinting off the top of his bald head.

"Oh, hell, to the no," I fairly shrieked, trying to sit up again.

"I'm going to have to ask you to sit still," said the nurse in surprise.

"LIKE HELL YOU ARE," I shouted. Dad stood, slammed his hands onto my shoulders and pushed me back into the pillow.

"Shawn, you need to calm the hell down, right now. You've just come out of intense surgery. We know you're a little freaked out but the best thing you can do right now is remain calm and still. I'm _right here."_

I stuttered over my words. "It's the—the _thing,_" I whispered, "I mean—didn't Lassie tell you the description I gave him?"

"Your father is right, we'll have plenty of time to answer all of your questions," the doctor said, his whole voice sounding like a creepy muscle relaxant at a lethal dose. "Just take it easy. We'll take this one _step_ at a time."

"STOP MAKING PUNS, YOU'RE NOT VERY GOOD AT IT," I shouted angrily, and then I started thrashing around, trying to figure out why I couldn't sit up more than a few inches. My knees started to throb but I didn't care. I was exhausted but I didn't care. I just needed to get out, out, out…

"Dad, just, get me out of here, now, please," I pleaded, in complete panic, "I just want to leave. Right now. Let's go. _I'll go fishing._ I swear I will. I catch those slimy suckers and I'll knock all their glitter off. Just—get—me—out—of—here!"

"Can you just, uh, give us a sec?" Dad asked the doctor.

"We should probably give him a sedative, he's going to damage something," said the nurse. "He needs to remain calm and still for at least three days without moving…"

"Don't give me any drugs!" I looked at Dad. "Don't let them give me anything, Dad… no pain meds, no sedatives, nothing, just don't, please…"

"Jesus, Shawn," Dad replied, tiredly.

"We can give you a minute," said the doctor, "but now that he's awake we really need to talk about his pain levels, medication, and what the next 24 hours will look like."

The nurse was filling a Styrofoam cup of water at the sink in the corner. "Nothing but tap water, sir," she said sweetly. "This can't hurt you, I promise. Drink it slowly. We'll step out for a moment." She set the cup down on the little fold-out table attached to the bed.

She and the doctor walked quietly out of the room, and began speaking in a low hum instantaneously. Thrashing around had been a bad idea, my legs now felt like a combination between a war zone and a sharknado path.

"This is just like Signs by M. Night Shah-ka-locka-ding-dong," I hissed loudly, definitely trying to use my humor to mask the intense leg cramps. "Except in this case I'm the alien because I will _not _drink that water, and they're the two kids with the asthma and all the half-drunk glasses." I was shaking again, trying to quell the feeling in my newly refurbished joints. "You can be Mel Gibson or Joaquin Phoenix, your choice. Considering Joaquin beats the hell out of me with a baseball bat, it's probably not the best idea."

"What the hell is going on?" Dad didn't actually sound that mad. His eyes were concerned as he sat back down, hesitantly putting one hand over mine again, as if he worried the crazy was contagious. "_Talk_ to me, kid!"

I started gasping with pain and the feeling of being trapped. I really had to think—why hadn't I wanted them to help in the first place?—oh, right.

"Because the knock-off Penny and Captain Hammer tried to kill me," I responded, "The man—and the woman—they did this to me!"

"What about them?"

"They look like them! The redhead, and Brian, who was very bald."

"Who—do you mean the doctor and the nurse?"

"Yes!"

"Are you saying they are actually hit-men trying to eliminate you?"

"Well, they got off to a good start, didn't they? They were wearing masks but there was no mistaking real red hair and a very fake toupee. Listen, she specifically said—she didn't want to leave a body trail, too much evidence. So she doesn't have to. All she has to do is slip me the wrong drug and make it look like the hospitals fault. You can sue for malpractice all you want, but it doesn't matter because they don't really work here and there wouldn't be a paper trail. Or a body trail. Any trail at all."

"Shawn."

"I'm not going to stay here. I'll leave. I'll switch doctors. I'll sue them—and you! I can't let them break into my place, break me up, and then just kill me later the sneaky way." _I am so, so tired. _

"Dad, in case you haven't noticed, I don't want to die. I'm quite young and have a beautiful blond and a chocolate sundae and an old retired cop to live for. And a really grumpy collie." Maybe I was medicated, I don't know. Maybe the redhead was hiding under the bed and stabbed me with a large needle through the mattress. I was feeling woozy. "Don't let them back in here."

"Just calm down, Shawn," Dad sighed. "I hear you, okay? I do. I'm listening."

"Don't leave me," I said, feeling all but nine years old again.

"I won't."

"Maybe I'm paranoid, but," I said tiredly, "The whole disguise thing is easy. Trust me, I know. They could sneak in here feasibly."

"When Juliet and Carlton get back," he replied, "We'll have them talk to them. I promise, even though I think you're overreacting and delirious."

"Just go with me on this one. If I'm wrong then I'll take whatever drugs they'd like to give me." I laid my head back on the pillow and nearly passed out right then. "This is… a really… cruel coincidence."

"I agree with you there."

"Where's Jules?"

"Carlton took her to the café. She needed to eat something." _As I thought. _

"Gus?"

"Not here yet."

I sat up again. "WHAT?"

"What?!" Dad said defensively.

"Okay, THAT'S IT," I groaned angrily, shifting around till I found the button to make the head of the bed rise so I could sit farther up. "I'm leaving."

"Don't be an idiot, you can't walk."

"I'LL STEAL A WHEELCHAIR! WATCH ME!"

"_Do not move_, Shawn."

"GUS IS MISSING, ISN'T THAT OBVIOUS?"

"If you move one more muscle, I will personally call Redhead and Baldy back in here to dose you up with something very, very strong."

"Fine, do it then, at least Gus would know I died trying to rescue him…"

"What makes you think he is missing?"

"Because he would've been here hours ago!" I recalculated. "A DAY ago!"

Dad, once again, pushed his hands into my shoulders and held me down in the bed. "So help me, I will personally tie you to this thing," he said sternly.

"I won't help you," I scoffed, offended, staring up into my Dad's very angry, contorted face. Maybe I was pushing it. Maybe I was assuming the worst. But how could Gus not call or something?

"Listen to me," Dad growled deeply, "Before you kill yourself accidently. Gus is on his way here. Apparently the date he was on went so well that he and his lady friend decided to take an impromptu road trip to the beach."

I blinked. "We… live... like, thirty feet from the beach. HOW HIS HE NOT HERE?"

"Somewhere farther up the coast! You know, _another _town with an ocean view." Dad cried, exasperated, increasing the pressure in his hands. I winced visibly. "Are you still going to try and leave?"

"…No."

"Gus is on his way here. He hasn't been abducted or assailed." He let go of my shoulders and stood back, flexing his fingers agitatedly. "He and his _friend _drove almost all night on a clear road, then he got Juliet's call, then they had to turn and come back. They're hitting day stop-and-go traffic the whole way. Satisfied?"

I shook my head and simply looked the other way. Again, I was making poor assumptions. I was hurting and I wanted to be so pumped full of pain-meds that I wouldn't feel anything except the emotional connotation of a Tiny Tim song.

Then the open door creaked open and a feminine shadow fell against the wall.

"GET THE HELL OUT," I shouted. "EAVESDROPPING IS NOT ATTRACTIVE!"

Juliet poked her head around the door, eyes wide. "I guess that means you're awake, then?" she asked, clearly surprised by my shouting and worried about why I'd be screaming at her in the first place. "I can eavesdrop out here, or I can come in."

"_Juuuules,_" I drawled happily. "I thought you were someone much creepier. Dad," I snapped, "Invite the lady in. Where are your manners?"

Dad rolled his eyes.

Juliet stepped inside and walked over to my bedside. _O, sweet Juliet, radiant as the sun… If I was a glove and she was a cheek…_ or something…

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

"Come hither," I said dramatically, holding out my arms, tubes tugging uncomfortably. "And embrace me."

Juliet hid a half-smile as she leaned down and hugged me gently. I wrapped my arms tightly around her and nearly pulled her down onto the bed. "You feel so dang good," I said softly.

"If I feel so good, why'd you yell at me to get the hell out?" Juliet asked, her voice muffled by my pillow.

"Not you, the nurse, it was a simple misunderstanding," I replied. She was so warm. I just wanted a snuggle.

She pulled back. "Why would you say that to your nurse?"

"Shawn thinks that his nurse is trying to kill him," Dad said, annoyed.

"What makes you think that?" Juliet's eyes made the very subtle shade-change from affectionate to business.

"I'm certain you remember my description. Red head and toupee man. BINGO! Doctor and Nurse."

"They fit the description you gave Carlton?"

"Yes, yes they _do,_" I said, satisfied.

"Shawn refuses pain medication until we question them and/or get him a different nurse," Dad added, just shy of rolling his eyes for the millionth time.

"You've _got _to be joking," Juliet cried exasperatingly.

"Actually, I'm Shawn. Joking is my unpopular cousin."

"You can't refuse treatment, Shawn, that's nothing to joke about," Juliet ignored a classic.

"I can too refuse treatment!"

"We were hoping that you and Lassiter could speak to them," Dad interjected. I was secretly pleased by his usage of 'we'. A team, Dad an' I, stickin' together. Underneath the grumpiness, but still.

"If it gets you better any faster," Juliet raised her hands in defeat. "If we talk to them, will you promise to cooperate?"

"I will cooperate if you _really _talk to them."

"Clarify?"

"Unleash the collie."

Dad snorted.

"I'm sorry?"

"Plant a seed in Lassiter's mind about the description I gave. I want him to know about the uncanny resemblance. I don't want him to just talk to them—I want him to do the whole nine yards."

"Like when he stares at someone in complete silence and weasels a confession out of them?"

"EXACTLY. I want Lassiter to give them everything he's got."

"Then you'll cooperate?"

"I promise."

"I'll hold you to that," Juliet reached down and briefly touched my hand. "It's good to see you up."

"Hey, question. I remember the ambulance-dudes yelling 'we're losing him'—did I die? Did you resuscitate me back to life?"

Juliet finally laughed, that cute, girlish guffaw of hers that sounded a little raspy, a little childish, and a little nerdy. "No, I didn't, though that would be romantic," she leaned over and kissed me soundly on the lips. I decided to forget my father was in the room and slipped a hand onto the back of her head, entangled in what _used _to be a very put-together bun.

Dad cleared his throat uncomfortably.

All too soon she pulled away but I was definitely looking forward to the next time our lips could be a party of two. "I was worried that you had a concussion," Juliet said. "It's only slightly _important_ for someone with a concussion to _not _lose consciousness. They were just… alerting each other to the possibility of trouble."

"That's not nearly as exciting."

"I've had enough excitement, I think," Juliet glanced back at the open door. "Carlton," she snapped.

Lassiter slowly poked his head inside. "Yes?"

"You were standing there this whole time?" I said, bemused and a little embarrassed. "You got my deets, Detective?"

If it were socially acceptable to do in a hospital, Lassiter would be slipping on a pair of aviators right now. "Got them. Already working on the leading question. You, uh," he looked like he was about to vomit a get-well card. "You rest up, we'll get to work. A moment, O'Hara?"

Juliet kissed me way too briefly on the cheek, and turned and followed Lassiter away.

"Oh, _shit,_" I cursed. "She was a really good distraction." I felt like I was watching those weird PBS specials that showed red flowers blooming in a ten-second time lapse when it should've taken ten days, except the red flower was how my knees felt—split open to reveal all the delicate innards—and I was the helpless editor doomed to speed up nature's secrets for my entire career. "Dad," I said, my voice croaking, "Please ignore my weeping."

"I plan to. If you'd let us give you the meds… can you at least drink some water? You're dehydrated…"

I looked at the cup, feeling a little defeated. "I _am_ thirsty…"

Suddenly, Lassiter and Juliet both came charging into the room like there was a fire at the foot of my bed lit by a hobo with a foot fetish.

"Done already?" I questioned, my heart sinking.

A forty-ish year-old woman, dark haired, Hispanic origin, kindly, and married for more than ten years (the ring had been added to), followed them in, looking haggard.

"_This _is your nurse," Juliet explained quickly. "She didn't answer your call because _someone _falsely informed her that she needed to run an errand in the children's wing. There is no one by your description that works in this hospital or on this floor."

"I was right," I was startled. "They… they were _in _here."

"Son of a bitch," Dad looked afraid, angry, worried, and shell-shocked. He suddenly pivoted the little table to the side, pointing at it. "Prints," he barked to Lassiter. "She was so eager to get him to take _something, _she left prints on the god-damn cup. She wasn't wearing gloves."

"PERFECT, I'll make the call," Lassiter grinned with an evil-looking delight. "Congrats, Spencer, your hospital room, in addition to your office is now a possible crime scene for attempted murder." He stomped out.

"I don't understand," Juliet said, "Why would they change their minds?"

"_You're being ridiculous," said the woman, and I was surprised to realize she was not talking to me. "I've seen how these things work. When we kill, we leave DNA at the crime scenes. There is just no getting around that. And you want to leave MORE evidence?"_

"_We need to find our guy," the man protested._

"_I said it before—we don't need a psychic, and we don't need this right now. Are you seriously ready to kidnap and hire someone who works for the SBPD, or trust that he'll 'pretend' to get off our trail, or kill him? Are you really that stupid?"_

"_They seemed like good ideas to me."_

"_You're an idiot. We can't leave a body trail."_

"_I agree with that," I said quickly, "If you kill me, I know of two very talented detectives that will stop at nothing till you've been hunted down."_

"_See, see?" the woman erupted. "Killers leave clues. Buying him off isn't going to happen—look at him, he's a poster boy for the police!"_

"They planned it this way all along," I realized. It was time for a reveal. "I see it now—they planned to kill me from the beginning, they just disagreed on the when and how. They said they didn't want to leave a body trail—I thought they were referring to a trail for the police to follow. I was wrong—it was a trail for someone else. Their employer! They really _are _just dumb hit-men that disagree on the methods and are stupid enough to show up at the hospital in disguise—because they aren't part of the trafficking ring. They were outside help brought in.

"They were afraid the DNA would be enough to hinder them, because suddenly getting slapped with the title 'serial killer', being the target of the SBPD and the media, isn't good business for guns-for-hire. It bring too much attention to them, and by default, the person who hired them to eliminate loose ends in the human-trafficking case. Their bouncer, the manager who kept track of 'inventory', and myself—who hasn't even _solved _the case before they made their move."

"Shawn," Juliet said slowly, in a loving, yet long-suffering tone. "We—we appreciate that you've put that together. As usual, that's… amazing… and helpful. But it was kind of a rhetorical question," she motioned the dark-haired woman forward. "Now, um, now that she's here, will you please let her do her job?"

I looked at the nametag of the nurse. "Hello, Maria," I said tiredly.

"I would like to apologize," Maria came to my side and looked at the monitors, and looked over a clipboard. "I was informed that another nurse would be watching you closely while I went to the children's wing. You are supposed to be watched until you awoke—apparently that did not happen. If you'd like to speak to my supervisor, he is at the front desk. My lack of judgment is inexcusable."

"We'd like to talk to your supervisor," Lassiter said sternly. "Police business."

Maria's eyes grew wide.

"Not because of you," Juliet said hastily. "I'll just, uh—be back in awhile. I'll be at the front desk."

Maria slowly looked over at my father as Juliet left the room. "Visitors aren't allowed in the recovery room," she said slowly, but when my father started to protest, she held up a hand quickly. "But since you are with the police, you may stay…"

"I'm retired…" Dad said gruffly.

"As far as I know, you're with the police," Maria corrected firmly. Lassiter didn't challenge that. "And since possibly more will show up soon, Shawn and I better get started."

Lassiter was staring down the Styrofoam cup, and to keep him from losing his marbles, Maria switched sides and came and stood at my right.

"All right, Shawn," she said sweetly, "First, do you have any questions I can answer for you?"

"Can I have some water?"

"Absolutely. Do you feel nauseated?"

"Nope." Dad glanced at me suspiciously. "Yes. Yes I do. Only because I tried to get out of bed. That would be my bad."

Maria's eyes widened slightly. "You cannot, under any circumstances, try to get out of bed until the physical therapist comes in and teaches you how to do so properly. And even then, it will be straight to a wheelchair. We've done _one _knee surgery plenty of times, but two for one person at the same time? If you are going to be up and walking around in a timely manner, you have to take care of yourself. Agreed?"

"Agreed."

"On a scale of one to ten, how bad is the pain?"

"One being a stubbed toe and ten being beheaded?"

Maria blinked. "If you like."

"Seven point five."

"Okay. First, Shawn, I'm going to get you some ice chips. It'll help your sore throat that you will have from the oxygen tubes and help satisfy your thirst for a time. Then, I'm going to give you pain medication and something to help with the nausea."

"Okay."

"I'll be right back." She looked at my father. "Don't let him get out of bed."

"Don't worry, he won't try that again. He promised," Dad responded.

Maria stepped out. I sighed and tried to stretch but it didn't really work. I felt battered and victimized and confused and sleepy and hungry and thirsty and sick…

"If you don't mind, Lassiter, I'd very much like to vomit," I mumbled.

Lassiter wanted nothing more than to leave, but he didn't want to leave his evidence. He picked up a small, white, plastic bowl from the little mini counter and shoved it under my chin. It smelled so bad—that bleach, sterile smell—that even if I wasn't going to vomit there was no avoiding it now. I shifted my shoulder to block Lassie's view and hurled into the bowl. Dad leaned down and held the bowl with one hand, then put the other on my back, rubbing it slightly.

I coughed when I was finished and Dad set the bowl aside, and seriously—just as if I was eight years old—he took a paper towel and wiped my chin and mouth with it. "I do have hands," I said, my voice giving out.

"Who cares?" Dad shrugged.

Suddenly Lassiter made an excited _yip _kind of sound. Out of his back pocket, he pulled out a small yellow square. It was like a miniature version of a "wet floor" sign, only it had a number on it. It was what they used to label the evidence at crime scenes. Like a kid in a candy store, he propped up the bright yellow number next to the Styrofoam cup, and leaned back, satisfied. "I knew I had an extra on me somewhere," he self-congratulated.

"Really?" I exclaimed. "REALLY?"

* * *

**wow, I guess this is a long story. It was just supposed to be a one-shot but I just can't stoooawwwwwp. Anyway, please review and let me know what you think! I'm still only in the first season of Psych but I'm LOVING it. I love how complex the relationship between Henry and Shawn is. Also I'm trying to write this like it takes place in later seasons, because I can't NOT have Juliet and Shawn together. I love those two way too much! **

**Thanks for your reviews! **


	4. Part IV

**I'll Have to Call You Back, I'm a Bit Tied Up at the Moment**

**By Pippin Strange**

* * *

Part IV

* * *

"Gus," I said sternly, "Do it."

"No_, SHAWN_, I _won't_ do it. This is _stupid_."

"Please?"

"No."

"Pretty please?"

"NUH UH! NO!"

"Humor me, I'm in-valid."

"You are not in-valid, you're an invalid, there is a difference. One is correct and one is not. Also, NO. The last time we did something like this, we knocked over an old lady."

"Can I bribe you?"

"How do you plan on doing that?"

"I will tell Lassie and Jules about the Second Grade Embarrassment."

"OH, YOU WOULD NOT."

"I would too!"

"You know what? _Fine. Tell them._ It was second grade. I can live with the shame, I'm a grown man."

"These are literally new. I saw them get unpackaged in the hallway. Nobody has ever died in them. I can still smell the leather."

Gus's eyes bulged slightly, and I could see I was slowly winning him over. "They still have that smell?"

"Like the back seat of a new car."

"And those shiny rims are untouched?"

"Pristine and without drugs."

"Fine, I'll do it! But you have garbage duty for a month. You can do it from a wheelchair and I'm sick of picking up paper wads when you're too lazy to clean up your rebounds from the trash hoop."

"DEAL," I replied, grinning with satisfaction as Gus neatly hopped into a blue-leather wheelchair, taking a deep whiff to smell the material freshly unwrapped from bubble wrap. _Ooh, we should hunt for the bubble wrap next. They're fun to pop. _

"Okay, ready?" I said, wheeling my own chair parallel to the wall, facing a long, shiny, recently-cleaned hallway. It was empty and devoid of people, which is precisely why I chose the time twenty minutes after visitor hours were over. Gus's presence wouldn't be discovered till the nurse checked on me in forty minutes, Dad was stopping by the house, Lassie and Juliet were head of a large man-hunt for murderers Ginger Top and Brian the Bastard.

We were in the clear.

Gus positioned his wheelchair alongside of mine, bobbing his head awkwardly as if an invisible ipod played nearby.

"You're imagining the Eye of the Tiger song in your head, aren't you?" I accused.

"YOU CAN'T TRY TO STEAL MY MOJO," Gus snapped. "EVERYONE THINKS OF IT BEFORE THEY RACE."

"I don't!"

"Sure you don't! Then why is your HEAD moving in rhythm with mine?"

"It's contagious."

"Are we doing this, or what?"

"Yeah—three second head start for the guy with the broken knees?"

"NO! If you won't, I'll count, ready? ONE—TWO—THREE!"

Our arms became whirling windmill devils, pushing at the wheels and hauling ass down the hallway at the speed of light. A dead light with no friends, but still. Gus was in the lead and shouting insults over his shoulder. My arms burned with exertion as I pumped faster, gaining on him.

"You can't haaaandle the truuuuuuuth," he quoted loudly, reaching the end of the hallway first. "AND THAT IS WHY BURTON GUSTER IS KING."

I slowed, panting loudly. "Agh… I think… maybe… your side… of the hall… was slippier-er than mine." I paused. "Slippier? Slippy-est?"

"More slippery?" Gus suggested.

"Yeah, that one! I CALL FOR A REMATCH!"

"I won fair and square!"

"Best two out of three?"

"FINE!"

"Ready," I said, "Set, g…" I stopped, and noticed Gus had his phone out. Not only was he completely relaxed in his dumb chair, he took his feet out of the stirrup things in front and stretched his legs out as if settling in for a tv marathon. He had a creepy little half-smile as he read a text message on his phone.

"Gus, don't be the Mona Lisa smile right now," I whined. "We're racing."

"It's Jordan, she wants to know when we will have another date," Gus informed me, and in his voice I could hear his bragging and his mental plea for help in breaking it off. "Since our last one was cut short…"

"Cut short? You had a whole night and day of driving together."

"And by the end of it we both just wanted to get out of the tiny cramped space and shower."

"Together?"

"None of your beeswax. We weren't sick of each other's company, just sick of traffic. We really hit it off, Shawn."

"Well I'm sooo sorry my little incident inconvenienced your date!"

"First off, there were way too many I's and T's in that sentence."

"Duly noted."

"Second, be happy for me. She's not a psycho and so far she has only been a _little_ needy."

"That remains to be seen."

"Third, I don't think this chair is new. I'm sniffing something other than leather and it's not a good smell. It may or may not smell like old people."

"What have you got against old people? You have so many of them on your route…"

"I don't just sell drugs to a bunch of elderly, they're _customers. _Doctors and therapists and such. They have professions!"

"I can't believe you don't include that demographic in your customer base—typical attitudes towards our senior citizens are bad enough, but I wouldn't think it of _you!_"

"It's not the people I have a problem with, it's the possibility I am sitting on the evidence of something they have expelled from their bodies." Gus got out of the chair so fast that somewhere in the world he probably started a hurricane. "I'm going to take you back to your room before somebody sees us and we get in trouble."

"You can't send me to my room, you're not my father."

"Fine, I'll just leave you in the hallway alone. And you can go back to your room—alone."

"GUS! DON'T LEAVE ME HERE! I CAN SMELL FROMALDAHYDE!"

"It's formaldehyde," Gus corrected, gripping the handles of the wheelchair with oddly Scandinavian strength as he began to push me back towards my room.

"How did YOU know how I was spelling it?" I protested.

"Oh, trust me, I KNOW how you think it's spelled," Gus answered.

…

I needed another dose of pain medication when we got back to my room. Even though I was suffering the consequences I would still argue that wheelchair races were the _best idea ever. _

Okay, I was on day three of living at the hospital, and I was starting to go crazy. I wanted to wear real clothes, take a real shower, eat real food, and kiss real lips. (Not that I was kissing any fake ones while in the hospital…)

I hadn't seen Juliet for a long time. After she left to go speak to the supervisor, the first thing she did was tell him to summon security and "shut down" everything, which really just meant not to let anyone in or out. Lock down.

After the sneak-ins had been discovered, nurses and volunteers came forward with eyewitness accounts of two "med students or something" that they had never seen before. Cops were there within minutes and the huge search began. When that was unsuccessful, and security footage from the parking lot showed the two getting into a taxi, the questioning shifted to the taxi company and driver. Lassiter guarded his precious evidence until the water inside the cup was contained for a toxicology test and the fingerprints were lifted off the Styrofoam.

When the results came back, there were enough tranquilizers in the water to put me into cardiac arrest, and the fingerprints were _inconclusive_. Apparently she had painted something clear over her fingertips to hide the prints, but I was too out of it to notice. If I hadn't just woken up from a long ordeal, I could have noticed and had a psychic vision and spared my father and I the unnecessary tense conversations.

But no, I had missed that detail, and now got to sit and wonder what was going to happen next. I hated that. It was like being a normal person.

As far as the crime scene at the office, the only DNA they recovered was my own from the vomit and the blood. They didn't dispose of the murder weapon (yet) and so they had nothing there, and they were wearing gloves, so obviously the break-in at the front door was _inconclusive._ I tried to never blame the forensics guys, but I was a little frustrated. It seemed like _everything _came back with a report of "_inconclusive_". It got to point that if Juliet or the Chief called me with an update I'd just yell "INCONCLUSIVE!" as soon I as I answered the phone, and after a pause, they'd say "Uh… yeah."

"What's the point of calling a psychic with news at all?" Juliet had shouted back into the phone during the last call.

"Because I love to hear the sound of your voice," I responded smoothly.

"Oh, really? Because nothing says 'love' like yelling at me every time you see or hear me."

"IT'S BECAUSE I AM SO EXCITED THAT YOU'RE MY GIRLFRIEND."

"If you don't stop that…"

"I am more than willing to whisper to you," I answered, "If you promise to curl up with me and watch bad television. I will whisper till you get irritated with that and miss the shouting."

"Listen, Shawn, I've got to go. I just wanted to tell you the results."

"… Thank-you. I miss you."

"I know, I miss you too. Bye."

…

When my father couldn't be at the hospital, I practically begged Gus to stay. I didn't want him out of my sight while our hit men were loose. When I first met the therapist, he walked in and saw Gus and immediately said, "I'm sorry, I don't think you can be in here."

"He most certainly can, he's my celebrity body guard," I replied. "It's a real thing. You can hire a celebrity to protect you when the police are too busy. Any and all assailants are usually so distracted by getting an autograph that you can make a clean getaway."

"Really," said the therapist, not amused.

"Yeah," I responded, "This is Burton."

Gus looked at me in shock. I never introduced him by his real name, I always made something up on the fly. But he reacted too soon.

"_LeVar Burton,_" I finished. "Surely you recognize him. Here, dude," I picked up a napkin off the hospital table and folded it into a 1 inch strip. "Hold that in front of your eyes."

Gus glared at my hands. "NO!"

"If LeVar would cooperate, you'd recognize him as that blind guy from Star Trek Generations," I thrust the napkin at Gus. "DO IT!"

"I'm sure there is a perfectly logical explanation as to why he's here," said the therapist tiredly. "Next of kin, brother, civil partner, witness protection, best friend—there's really no point in telling tall tales. If he needs to be here, fine. But this session is for you and it's important and I don't want you to be distracted. So let's get going, shall we?"

"I _told _you they wouldn't kick you out," I whispered victoriously.

"YOU insisted that they would unless you made up a good excuse," Gus exclaimed, crossing his arms over his chest.

...

Physical therapy involved propping a leg up into something that looked like a small, cushioned kitchen appliance called a CPM (continuous passive motion) device. It helped me move my leg back and forth but it was so damn excruciating that I asked if we could postpone anything that reminded me of movies from the eighties. The therapist just said, "No."

After the exercise, he asked me how I felt, and I asked him how _he _felt knowing that he just sucked five years out of my life.

I have to applaud the man for picking up the Princess Bride reference. With a half smile, he replied, _"Interesting," _in a beautiful Tyrone impression.

"You're a man after my own heart," I replied, "Now, can we part as friends?"

"We're not parting as anything. We still need to do the other leg."

I pouted. "All right, fine. _We," _I gestured back and forth between us, "Are not friends." Pause. "And I'm sorry for not coming clean about Burton. He was _also _on Reading Rainbow, I should have mentioned that."

"I'll pretend you didn't."

...

Until I made a full recovery, I got to stay at Dad's. I left the hospital after intense physical therapy for a week, but I couldn't be alone. The wheelchair posed an issue for returning to my apartment, and with Gus and Juliet at work all day, nobody wanted me to stay in apartments by myself.

And apparently Dad has nothing to do in his retirement other than watch over his wayward son.

In my nightmares, Mara Jade and Brian were unmasked to reveal a bald Lassiter and a recently-dyed redheaded Juliet. The emotions felt inside my chest during those dreams felt unbearable, and I thought that was the worst. But no—the worst ones were simple reenactments of the assault. I was lying on the floor, knowing what was coming but being unable to stop it. Brian swung the mallet—not once, but twice, and after enduring the whole horrifying agony _again, _I would wake up with a scream and the shakes.

My knees would be suffering "ghost" pain—in the end, they were just sore from the surgery and feeling better by the day, but after a nightmare the pain felt as real and as fresh as it did the minute it happened.

I yelled loudly and shot off the couch, eyes adjusting to the darkness and wrenching my hands around, trying to figure out if they were still tied with rope or not. They were not and it took me a minute to realize that I wasn't lying on my office floor.

"Where am I?" I shouted. "WHERE AM I?!" I recognized the light from the window, sensing familiar territory but my brain hadn't caught up yet. "Turn on some lights, you sons of bitches!"

The light flicked on and my father stood there in boxer shorts and a gray T-shirt. His face looked a lot older and the yellow light filled the room with a midnight glow. "Hey," he said gruffly, walking over towards the couch.

"Dad!" I exclaimed, recognizing the living room of his home. I grimaced. "I'm sorry—I woke you up. Sorry—I thought—my mind was elsewhere. Flashback world. It's not as pleasant as I pictured. I thought it would be more like flashmobs… with glitter." I winced and tried to massage around my knees without actually touching them. "I'm good, though, I'm good, go back to bed…"

"Mhm, sure," Dad sat down beside me on the couch. "You probably won't be able to go back to sleep unless you talk it out. So?"

"So what?"

"So go ahead."

"It was just a nightmare. I'm fine."

"Right," Dad said with a sigh, "I know you, Shawn, and you're thinking about the case, and there's something not clicking. So—go on—try me."

"Okay, if red-head and baldy wanted to kill me, why not kill me at the office?"

"Go on."

"So, clearly they were going for intimidation. They needed to find someone and wanted my help—Brian's bad idea. I wouldn't do it. They wanted to leave me incapable of pursuing them and left. It was sloppy. They're cheap hit-men if anything. But something changed—perhaps they saw their employer. Their employer found out that they left me alive and grew angry with them. They had to finish the job even when I wasn't a target in the first place… And then they expected to find me alone. They didn't. I recognized them and they left, hoping I would die by drinking water anyway. Another sloppy move."

"And?"

"That's three strikes. They didn't find Person A, they sought help of Person B, had to kill Person B, and failed to kill Person B. Any money-making asshole in the human trafficking business is _not _going to put up with that kind of rookie mistake… or three rookie mistakes."

Dad sighed, knowing where this was going. "They may no longer be a threat to you."

"That's what I'm thinking. I'm pretty sure the next bodies we're going to find will be them. They failed, they'll be taken out. And we'll be back to square one—a trafficking ring fronted as a club, with both the murdered-and-the-murderers being as dead as doornails."

"We've been focusing on the wrong aspect of the case."

"We are on FIRE!" I cheered. "We need to stop scraping the bottom of the barrel and look for the maker and labeler of the barrel instead."

"I don't think labeler is a term…"

"SPELL CHECK DISAGREES RIGHT NOW," I put my fingers to my forehead as if experiencing a vision. "So we're going to go with that. Where's my phone? I want to call the chief."

"Before you start tossing theories like fish in a market," Dad cautioned, "You need some evidence. This was just spit-balling here. You can't call the chief at this hour with nothing but an idea. Where do you think they'd go after getting in a taxi? It could be anywhere in the city! Anywhere!"

"I don't think we need to know where they _went, _only where their bodies are going to end up. A river? A vacated home?" I brightened. "A RECENTLY vacated home?"

"The homes of the previous victims are crime scenes. They wouldn't dump a body, or two, there."

"Damn it, it would've been so poetic if they had been left at the previous homes of the guard and the manager. Or even at the club. But they're crawling with cops."

"You're not thinking clearly."

"_I know!"_ I snapped with frustration, then quickly sobered up. "I know that. Okay, sorry, Dad, I know you're trying to help. It's not your fault I'm exhausted."

"Go back to sleep. You've made a little progress, at least you know where to pick up in the morning. And son," Dad added the last part, grumbling crankily, but with an ounce of love that he so often hid with sarcasm, "I'll be right here, okay?" he got up and went to the armchair, settling in with a yawn.

"You can't sleep in there, you'll be all sore and creaky tomorrow…"

"I'm staying right here."

I paused. I couldn't win this. "Okay."

Dad leaned back against the chair and shut his eyes. "Now, stop thinking, and go to sleep."

I slowly lowered myself back down onto the couch with a soft _ow ow ow _and tried to shut my eyes. Dad reached behind him and shut off the light.

Darkness.

"Dad?"

"What?"

"I gotta pee pee."

"Shut up."

"Aw, I love you too, Dad. Gawd, you can be so sweet sometimes."

"Goodnight, Shawn."

* * *

**Sorry it's a short one, I've been so busy watching Psych and working full time that I haven't done much writing. Hehe. This story just keeps expanding, I was hoping to end it with this chapter. I'm literally just winging it. Good mystery writers have an end-game in mind. So I must not a good mystery writer... because I'm just letting the plot bunnies out of the cage and this story is long from over.**

**Anywho. Long letter to you all wonderful people below.**

* * *

Dear Reviewers,

Wow! I have to acknowledge you guys with a note the length of my grandfather's Christmas letter because your support and praise has been overwhelming. Progress report: My bro and I are now watching season 3 (we like to marathon hardcore) and the show just keeps getting better. I squeal every time there is a Shawn+Juliet moment. (Especially the –about to kiss— J: Shawn, what are we doing? S: I call this… very close talking.)

The show is just so emotionally compromising and it made me want to call in sick to work. I haven't had weakness like this since the Big Bang Theory incident of 2011.

To answer reader questions:

Firstly, **a sharknado is a tornado full of sharks**. This is actually a real film that aired on the Syfy channel. If you want to have the best (or worst) two minutes of your life, watch the trailer on youtube. Try not to burst a spleen.

Secondly, **Psych is one of the best shows ever**. Isi7140, I'm a BBC girl through and through. It takes a LOT of convincing for me to watch American shows, so I definitely mean business when I say Psych is worth the time of a tv-watcher who usually prefers the British with their turned-up collars and… cheekbones. (Sherlock reference, for those of you playing along at home!)

Lastly, I've gotten a lot of very kind and amazing compliments about having Shawn's character down. If I am being honest I don't think I can say this is good writing, just feeling intensely relatable. I think I may be Shawn trapped in a woman's body. It's like Invasion of the Body Snatchers except I don't shamble around and point at people while screaming. Case in point, at work today:

Me at work (retirement home): a coffee and milk for you, ma'am?

Old lady with memory problems: HOW DID YOU KNOW?

Me: …..I read minds.

Old lady: OooooOooohh! (starts clapping)

Second case in point:

My best friend and I are obsessed with pineapples. We have been for years, before we knew each other, even. I bought her a pineapple for her birthday (plus we went to the beach and I got her some books too, but my favorite gift was the pineapple). We make late-night pineapple runs to the store. We get pineapple-flavored things. And then I watched the show and everything was PINEAPPLE related and I kept screeching I THOUGHT I WAS THE ONLY ONE! THEY UNDERSTAND MY PEOPLE!

Anyway. Long story longest.

We just have very similar personalities, and since I'm a new fan I can honestly say when I don't know what Shawn would do, I just ask myself what I would do or say, and it's working so far.

Please tell me if there's any gimmicks or classic lines repeated in later seasons that I should include in this story :)

Love to all,

Pippin

PS: I know this is insanely long, but I have two more notes: I try to do a LOT of research when I'm writing. My search history is full of "knee surgery", "physical therapy", and "what happens after knee replacements" and many other variations of that. Some of it is from personal experience, like the nightmare scene. A good friend of mine was robbed while traveling in Europe, and when she spent the night at my house weeks later, she woke up in the middle of the night screaming "where am I? where am I?" because the last thing she remembered was being robbed and thought that she had been abducted, too. Scary stuff.

But if you see any weirdness that should've been researched more carefully, let me know. ;)

PPS: Ever since I started this story, my knees have been aching. And I keep running into things… with my knees. It seems like every day I'm going OW and looking down like okay guys what's going on down there…. I don't believe in "karma" but seriously… WHAT THE HECK? Is this punishment for my first "whump" story?! (after stubbing my knee for like the third time yesterday I am seriously questioning my life choices.)


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